


Drifting

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: During the interminable winter at the Château de Graçay, Hornblower keeps finding himself in Bush's room.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Drifting

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/189818344913/wip-meme-hornblower).

“My hands have gone soft,” Bush says ruefully, seated on his bed, stripped to the waist with his truncated leg outstretched before him. 

Hornblower stops pacing to watch. With the light from the window falling across his scarred and wasted torso, Bush is like a well-used set of sails: all patches and worn places, vulnerable to any unexpected change of wind, and yet still capable of rude physical power. Bush flexes and stretches one meaty hand, takes its palm between thumb and forefinger, and rubs away an invisible ache. 

It is merest chance that has brought Hornblower to Bush’s room. Hornblower might have drifted, directionless, into any of the many rooms in the Château de Graçay, but he happened to be at the window in the long corridor outside, staring out at the winter rain veiling the countryside when Bush stumped back from the stable where he and Brown are building the boat. Bush’s bluff welcome, combined with the lack of any impulse on Hornblower’s part to be elsewhere, had drawn Hornblower into Bush’s room after him.

Bush runs his thumb over the pads of a finger, exploring the returning callouses, and Hornblower watches. “Soft like a woman’s,” Bush says again.

It is a ludicrous statement: Bush’s hands are nothing like a woman’s. This winter Hornblower has come to know Bush’s hands intimately. During the desperate journey from Rosas Bay, Hornblower held Bush’s hands and caressed them, gave comfort through them and took strength from them. Their callouses softened during Bush’s long convalescence, the horny texture fading through lack of hard use, but his hands remained broad and well-weathered, their grip strong even during the worst of his illness.

And so they remain, scarred and rugged and beautiful. Beautiful as only something used hard and well can be beautiful.

“Soft like a woman’s,” Bush says again, insensible to the ludicrousness of his statement, and Hornblower makes a helpless noise of protest. 

He does not know why he is here, why he so often drifts into Bush’s room. He loathes Bush’s good cheer, the satisfaction that clings to him from a day well-spent in the stable loft, building the boat that may ultimately save them from their captivity. Hornblower has spent his own day at the château’s turret window, spyglass to his eye, uselessly looking out at the freedom that is denied to him. For two pins he would say something to wound Bush, to prick his good cheer. Something that would stop his tongue with shame.

Bush is still contemplating his hands, but his demeanour grows grave. “It’s good to have a use again, sir. I daresay Brown could manage without me if it came down to it, but the work goes easier with two. In prison, I thought…” He lifts his eyes to Hornblower’s, his face so much more expressive than Hornblower is accustomed to. On the _Sutherland_ , and the _Lydia_ before that, it was the rare moment when Bush had betrayed his feelings to his commanding officer, but illness and injury has laid him bare, his highs and lows, triumphs and despair. Bush’s lifted face speaks of the fear of having no place, no purpose. 

Hornblower’s heart trembles in sympathy, trembles with the uselessness of a captain without a ship. 

“Hold your tongue,” Hornblower snaps. 

Bush dips his head in acknowledgement. “Aye aye, sir.” He rubs one hand in the other, and Hornblower stands well across the room and watches. 


End file.
